The Punisher: Death on the docks
by Frank Hitchens
Summary: Here we have the first three chapters of what will eventually become a full war journal of an amalgamation of some of Franks greatest battles. Starting with the infamous creation of Jigsaw in chapter one, followed by a visit from a super hero obsessed Russian assassin in chapter two! Excelsior! Then see how events unfold when Johnny and Bobby have to give Howard some bad news!
1. Chapter 1

The Punisher

Chapter one: Death on the Docks

Frank dreamed a dream. Lightning flashes of USMC basic training filled his head like ghosts of a distant past. A trigger, a boot, a green beret. Glimpses of how it all started. Death in the jungle, death abroad, death at home. Skeletons yielded to unrelenting gravity then decomposed into the ground without names. A sunny day in Central Park, kites were influenced by the wind, dancing and chasing each other in the serene breeze. A child laughs, a child cries, a child screams, a child dies. Grave stones illuminate to reveal their epitaphs. Frank Castle, Maria Castle, a gunshot rings out destroying the silence.

Franks eyes dramatically opened.

He was surrounded by a dank dark gym, standing before a rusty squat rack and dirty mirror, Frank deadlifted a ridiculous weight up and down up and down, his muscles were pumped and vascular, Frank was huge, superhuman, he looked like a Herculean hero. He would put Banner to shame. Everything was dark, black and depressing, yet his skull upon his huge chest shined brightly. Juxtaposed against the morose backdrop. A beacon of light remaining constant in a world going to hell.

Outside three new clean punisher t-shirts hung upside down on a washing line, flowing and dancing in the breeze.

It was time to suit up, Frank stood in his apartment workshop where rifles lined the walls, maps and mugshots with big crimson X's littered the death board like a phylogenetic tree of crime. One branch lead to an untouched cluster. until tonight. Frank loaded his weapons, SFW carbine with UGL, .44 magnum, Bowie knife, grenades, flash bangs and magazines, a ménage of destruction.

The deal goes down tonight.

Micros Intel was solid. The old glass factory on the docks. The Saints and The Russos have formed an alliance. Two of the biggest, dirtiest and violent crime family's have just slipped into bed with eachother. Must be Cozy. This will a nice little wake up call.

Frank slammed a full metal jacket into his M4 Dimarco, the shrill, satisfying sound pierced the night, an apt premonition of what's to come.

Inside the Glass and Mirror production factory suave gangsters in three piece suits hold a secret conference right underneath the DEAs nose, and only the dockrats will ever know. Outside four muscles lazily stroll, patrolling the perimeter, one on each side of the building holding G4 "barking dog" rifles.

One of the patrolman's heads suddenly exploded in a pink mist, his body flopping silently to the floor like a puppet who's strings were abruptly cut. The other three followed the same fate in quick succession, the view from the punishers scope witnessing all four patrolmen fall in tandem.

Inside, amongst shipping crates and glass loading equipment, Howard Saint called for silence, flanked by two bodyguard gorillas, he raised his hands in the air like a slick TV evangelist manipulating his flock. The group of Saints and Russos fell deadly quiet.

"Gentlemen, thankyou for coming, this union will open up new and prosperous opportunities for us all. And as a token of my appreciation, and a symbol of trust, I have brought you here tonight, to give you, the Russos, a little gift."

Billy Russo looked smug as he wore a Cheshire grin upon his weasely face. He likes presents.

Howard clicked his fingers at his trained apes, Johnny and Bobby. "Open the crates!" He exclaimed in an authoritarian manner.

Johnny and Bobby knuckledragged over to a pair of shipping crates and slipped a crowbar between the creaking wood to reveal a mass of M60 assault rifles, state of the art, bang bang.

Billy Russos eyes shined like diamonds in the black nights sky, he rubbed his hands together so viciously they ran the risk of setting alight.

" I think this is going to be the start of a long and happy partnership!" Billy could hardly contain his greasy excitement.

Various goons admired the new hardware and chattered excitedly and approvingly amongst themselves, with their wit and bravado exceeding themselves

Russo thug: "Dose Russian motha fuckers ain't gonna be able to do shit against dis much bang!"

Saint lackey: "Let's see those yakuza pricks pressure us now!"

Abruptly, during the chatter and witty thug bragging, the lights cut out, seconds of darkness were filled with various curses and "what the fucks"

A red timer counted down, attached to a door breaching explosive, as it hit 0000 the door to the glass factory violently exploded in a parade of flashes and flames, illuminating the faces of the thugs. Those who were close to the door disintegrated in a shower of red as limbs flew around the room. Those who had not been blown apart from the blast were scared shitless, fumbling for their new toys.

Frank stormed in, a spectre silhouette against the smoke and fumes, like the grim reaper collecting souls, only the skull was fully visible.

Frank fired controlled bursts from his M4 Dimarco, causing various thugs' chests and heads to explode spraying dark crimson blood in a crescendo of ultra violence.

Howard's apes pushed him back as he ran up the stairs to a room marked "mirror showroom". He slipped inside the door, fuelled by a burning sweaty fear. He inadvertently trapped himself inside as the only exit was a window leading to a very high drop.

"Agh for fucks sake Punisher!" He screamed desperately.

Back in the main factory Frank worked his way across the factory floor, using a mix of CQC, and knife combat. He dropped his rifle once out of ammo and continued with his .44 hand cannon, grabbing thugs as human shields, breaking necks, stabbing faces and destroying his opposition. A couple of rounds hit Franks Kevlar, making him stumble back, however a few grenades were his answer back.

A mass of mangled bodies lay around Frank, smoke rose from spent shells and bullet holes. Stepping over bodies Frank walked up the stairs to the mirror showroom.

Howard Saint was paralysed by fear. He had heard the stories of the boogeyman. If you see the skull you'll see a body bag. Cowering in the corner of the room unaware of the elegant mirrors in brass and gold frames that stood guard around the walls. Howard shakily clutched his browning peashooter and felt inadequate.

The door exploded from a mini charge and a flash bang rolled in, it's dazing light blinded Howard as he began to scream and sob like a terrified child. A sound Frank knew all too well.

"Fuck you Punisher! FUCK YOU!"

Frank holstered his .44 and calmly walked into the room, Howard pawed around blind for his dropped pistol, no chance, out of reach. Frank picked up Howard one handed by his collar, choking him, pulling him close to his face, close enough to smell his fear. Frank drew his head back to gain momentum and slammed his forehead hard against Howard's face. breaking his nose, feeling the bones crumble as blood spurted freely from his nose and mouth.

Frank grabbed Howard by the neck and the belt, and swung him back to gain a good thrust and smashed his face in to one of the mirrors, glass teared up Howard's face as he let out a feral shriek. Frank repeated the process with five other mirrors, ripping and tearing Howard's skin and facial tendons into an unrecognisable pulp. Blood poured out of Howard's face, neck and hands.

"Ppppleassse" he stuttered almost unrecognisably due to the fact that his lips were unable to form the shapes necessary for proper enunciation.

Howard whimpered like a defeated animal who knows he will not survive the winter. If Frank could remember how to smile, he would take pride in this one.

Frank hoisted Howard up and hurled him towards the window, his body smashed through the razor sharp glass which tore his skin, muscle and sinew apart, falling down to a thud on the asphalt.

Frank walked to the broken window and looked down to the dock floor, a huge puddle of blood and glass littered the ground, however Howard's body was no where to be seen.

"You're tougher than I thought Saint. I guess my work isn't through."

Frank turned away from the mass of blood, skin, hair and glass and retreated into the night.

Outside Franks apartment three punisher t-shirts hung on a washing line in the breeze. The middle shirt this time battle damaged, with bullet holes and blood stains littering the skull.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two: Fan-mail from Russia

Howard was down but not out. That didn't concern Frank. As he cleaned his M4 and oiled the working parts he knew that it wouldn't be long before there was a bounty on his head. That didn't concern Frank. None of the second rate assassins would be crazy enough to try and all the good ones had been taken care of, or he shared with them a mutual understanding. They don't bother Frank and he doesn't bother them. Unless of course they step over the line, Frank keeps an eye on that. Even Deadpool wouldn't dare to push The Punisher too far. It wouldn't be good for his health.

Frank hung his Kevlar in the workshop section of his apartment, filed under "needs attention". Various tools stared down from their vantage point, the glint of their silver longing to be used. Old rifle parts littered the workbench waiting for the day that they can rejoin the good fight.

A dull thudding knock echoed out from the front door, "Damn! Joan must have made another batch of cookies" Frank thought to himself as he strolled through the living space to the door.

Carelessly, uncharacteristically he unlatched and opened up wide, not even taking a moment to glance through the peephole.

Big mistake Frank.

Frank had been hit many times in his life with a variety of different things, but never had he felt the sheer force of knuckle that connected with his nose quite so acutely as he did at that moment in time. A lightening bright flash and a haze of dizzy stars assaulted his vision like a blizzard.

"Hello big boy! Special delivery to Mr. Francis Castle yes?"

A rough Russian growl barked out a sadistic laugh.

"I bet you thought The Russian was postman pat!" With his cat of black and white, yes? except The Russians cat is his fist!"

There was nothing remotely funny about the comedian that stood in Frank's doorway. A man mountain of at least seven feet, and from what Frank could see through his blurry vision, this guy was at least twice as wide.

Pockmarks and scars littered The Russians face, old mementos of previous wars, ones that he had probably fought and won all by himself. His smile twisted, his eyes bright with flames of anticipation, he looked to enjoy his work.

Frank leapt to his feet and ducked under a ferocious python arm which had slithered out to bite him, and replied with his best left hook to the Russians ribs, a real haymaker, with a force that Ali would have envied.

It seemed as if the this man was made of granite. The Russian giggled like he had just been caressed by a lover, and Frank shuddered from a reverberating shock wave that recoiled back up his arm.

"Oh Mr. Francis! The Russian is only through the door and already you play with his heart!"

The room went black as The Russian stretched up high with both hands and brought them sledgehammering down upon Franks neck. He hit the floor hard.

"Now now Mr. Francis! We are both soldiers yes? For this you get The Russians respect. No more cheap shots from The Russian no?"

At this he hoisted Frank up by his belt effortlessly with one hand and sat him down on a nearby chair.

When Frank came to, he felt restricted, The Russian had tied him tight to his chair with combat rope.

"But you understand as an enemy soldier, I must interrogate you. You tell The Russian what he wants to know, The Russian will do you the honour of killing you quickly. If you resist, The Russian must torture you slow to death yes?"

The Russians eyes twinkled, Frank knew he was begging for the second option. Either way he would play along, he needed the rest to get himself together.

"Every good communist hates America, but secretly loves American culture, the pop charts, compact disc, blue fish disc! MINI DISC! Levi's and ladies in under night wear am I right Francis yes?"

The Russian gave Frank a wink, a hearty chortle and slapped him on the back in a friendly Sunday football way, which sent him hurtling to the floor.

"Oops! Sorry Francis! The Russian forgets his strength!"

With one hand The Russian rocketed Frank and his chair upright to proceed with the interrogation.

"Now where was the Russian? Ahh yes! Super heroes! I love super heroes! We have nothing like them in Russia, apart from Putin, he wrestles bears and fights Karate but he doesn't wear cool suit. I know that you know American superheroes! The Russian knows he should not do the mixing of business and pleasure but he may not get another chance like this! You will tell The Russian where they live so He can make visit for polaroid and squiggles!"

Frank could not decide if he was hallucinating, was this guy serious? He's come all the way from Russia to smash his way into Franks apartment to ask him for Ironmans address? He glanced up at The Russians face and immediately knew that he was deadly serious, serious enough to kill over it.

"Hmm! The silent treatment eh? The Punisher is a good, strong solider! Stay there Francis while The Russian finds something to hit you with!"

Frank tried to wrestle free from the bindings, but there was no chance, the ropes were digging in to his wrists and burning his skin.

"So many weapons Francis! You have cool stuff!"

The Russian was rustling around in Franks workshop, tools were clanking around, he was intent on finding the right implement.

The Russian came back and he had changed. He had squeezed himself in to one of Franks Punisher t-shirts, was holding a large wrench in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. He wore the grin of a kid who had just won his first box car derby.

"I will be the new punisher now! I bet I will win first place in Russia cosplaycon this year as Punisher! Big skull is cool!"

Blood erupted from Franks face as the wood of the baseball bat splintered across his cheekbone with a deafening crack.

"TELL THE RUSSIAN WHERE SPIDER-MAN LIVES! WHERE IS THE MAN OF SPIDERS!"

The Russian shouted enthusiastically and swung what was left of the baseball bat at Franks face again and left a nice sized, gaping gash across his eye.

"THE RUSSIAN PLAYS NO MORE! HOW DOES THE RUSSIAN CONTACT THE MIGHTY THOR FROM AZGARD? WHERE IS NICK FURY HIDING! HE HAS ALL THE SUPERHEROS IN HIS FILE-O-FAX!"

At this the big wrench came into play, he swung it viciously towards Franks head, however Frank was one step ahead of the game, he pushed backwards with all his might and slammed his chair on to the ground, it shattered apart allowing him to dodge the wrench and roll out of the way.

The Russian stumbled forward off balance, Frank capitalised and with a piece of sharp wood, cut his ropes, dived across the room behind the Russian and stabbed him with the chair shard in the gut.

Frank jumped on his back with the grace of a dancer and wrapped the remaining rope hard around The Russians thick neck.

The Russian groped frantically but couldn't reach Frank on his back, he was getting out of breath and weak. In a last attempt at freeing himself he jumped up as high as he could and slammed down on the floor hard on his back. Frank felt like he had no air left in his body, the weight of the Russian crushed him. As the Russian rolled away both men lay side by side panting, dazed and confused.

"That was not nice Mr. Francis. You got blood all over The Russians new punisher shirt!"

The Russian panted, his chest heaving up and down. In his dazed state he failed to notice that Frank had crawled away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Frank was in trouble. He was bleeding profusely from his face and he was pretty sure he had broke a few ribs. Sticky warm blood tricked from his side where a bone had fractured through his skin.

He clambered towards his computer, standing shakily he reached the keyboard and opened a communication channel to an old friend.

"Hey ? What are you doing over there? Calling for help from Hulk? Tell him to bring the Thing and Abomination, ask them why they keep ignoring The Russians fanmail arm wrestle challenge!"

The Russian lethargically rolled over and clambered to his feet, Frank turned, angry, feral and ready to attack, he stumbled slightly, regained his composure and rushed The Russian with a flying knee, splitting his nose and spraying crimson blood from his mangled, scarred face.

"AGGH! You hurt me you stupid American asshole!"

The Russian panted out between his fingers as he felt the deep red liquid pouring from his face. The two men faced off, ready for another round.

Meanwhile upon the S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier, Maria Hill was at her post. It was a quiet day and she was procrastinating in an attempt to fend off her boredom. Her coffee was two hours cold and she thought of nothingness as the sun reflected through the opaque windows, accentuating her boyish good looks.

Suddenly her screen lit up like a Christmas tree of yellow and blue flashing lights. An urgent message had been intercepted from New York, a Hotel, Echo, Lima, Papa priority code. Maria was baffled, she wasn't aware of anyone who had the kind of clearance to request a direct message to Director Fury, and she wasn't some low level grunt who was likely to be kept out of the picture. Either way she was bound by her duty to immediately escalate this message as a matter of priority.

She begrudged the fact that she would not be authorised to see the message. This was black ops secret material. Someone very close to Director Fury was in trouble. She buzzed through to his office.

"Sir, you have an urgent Hotel, Echo, Lima, Papa priority code message, I'm patching it through for your authorisation now"

She tried to hide the contempt in her voice as Nick fury bolted upright from behind his interactive video conference equipment.

This meant big trouble. There's only one man with that clearance, and for him to be calling in a favour from a fellow Vietnam vet, meant he was in some pretty deep shit.

"Damn It Frank, what mess have you got yourself into!"

Back in New York, The Russian had Franks head in the fridge and was repeatedly closing the door on his face, Franks body was limp and he was cursing his incredibly high pain tolerance threshold, which was not allowing him to pass out.

With each slam of the fridge door the Russian demanded more information on the whereabouts of several masked heroes.

"Where, SLAM does, SLAM the, SLAM Silver, SLAM Surfer, SLAM surf?"

This barrage of destruction continued until the fridges hinges gave up on life and disintegrated.

"You chill there while the Russian finds even more toys! Heh chill! Get it? Funny joke!"

Then as if a flashbang had been thrown into a pitch black room, the apartment exploded in a bright flash and bricks erupted as a large hole was blown through the wall, through the smoke came a streaking flash of a red white and blue shield which found it's target in the form of The Russians barrel chest.

"Ooof! The enemy of communism is here! And ODINS BEARD! Ironman too! The Russian is in heaven!"

Flying across the room and landing amongst the smashed debris of the bathroom, The Russian grabbed Captain Americas shield and hurled it towards Ironman singing,

"When The Russian throws his mighty shield! All who oppose the power of the shield must yield!

When he's lead to a fight or a duel is due then the red and the white and the blue'll come through, when The Russian throws his mighty shield!"

He rung the last note out like an opera singer, both hands in the air awaiting the generous applause from his theatre audience, what he received however was a freight train blast from Ironmans repulser ray.

"Erm ok Ivan the terrible, you'll have to do better than that to take down ironman!"

Captain America rushed over to Frank who was still half hanging out of his fridge and helped him to his feet.

"Jesus Frank! Are you alright?"

"Keep him busy"

Frank grunted and stumbled away to his workshop.

The repulser ray had sent The Russian flying across the apartment and left him suitably buried under a myriad of bricks and rubble.

As Tony approached the lump of mortar that lay unceremoniously upon the floor, he heard another shrill, out of tune song emanating from underneath the bricks.

"Tony Stark makes you feel, he's a cool exec with a heart of steel!"

Tony was too slow to dodge away as the Russian pounced from under the rubble, he caught ironman by the feet and began swinging him around the room at lightening speed, smashing him through walls and against steel support beams, all the while continuing his ode to Ironman

"As iron man! All jets are ablaze, He's fighting and smiting with repulser rays!"

He swung Tony over his head and let him go in the direction of Captain America with the velocity of a spaceship, giggling with glee and the two collided with the sound of a sonic boom.

"Amazing Armour! That's ironman!

A blazing power! That's ironman!"

Cap hurled himself up from the ground and threw his shield with all his might, it sped through the air with astonishing speed and took the Russians legs from under him just as ironman shot a powerful blinding chest beam at his head. The dual attack made the Russian spin around in the air like an out of control Ferris wheel and sent him crashing down, dazed and semi conscious on the floor.

The Cap waltzed over and cuffed the Russians hands behind his back with a sharp snap.

"You're coming with us for interrogation Russian!"

The Russian looked up at the towering figure of American independence above him, despite the splitting headache, and blood pouring from his face and stomach, he really was having a very good time. That was until he felt the cold hard tip of Franks .44 magnum hand cannon press against the back of his skull, accompanied by a dead piercing click as the hammer was drawn back.

"FRANK! Don't do it! He needs to be brought to justice! This is murder!" Captain American exclaimed almost pleading with Frank.

The Russian wore a desperate smile on his face as he uttered his last words

"Tell The Russian about the Rabbits, George"

And with that the Russians mouth, teeth, jaws and cheeks exploded in to a mulch of crimson mist that splattered across Steve Rodgers boots.

"DAMN IT FRANK!"

Rodgers screamed as he smashed a battle weary Frank over the head with his shield. Frank dropped to the floor and fell in to a peaceful, serene state of rest.

"Natasha, bring the jet round and prepare for one prisoner to see Fury."

Rodgers chattered into his comms unit decisively, retaking control of the situation.

Tony looked from the red gory pile, across to Franks bloodstained body, he couldn't see much difference between the two in all honesty. He glanced up at The cap, sighed and said:

"Did you really need to hit him that hard, Steve?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3. Good help is hard to find.

Howard Saint had always enjoyed a life of privilege. He came from money, dirty money, blood money. He never cared where it came from, as long as it kept flowing and he was kept comfortable. His father, John Saint, was New yorks biggest crime boss, he was revered and he ruled the streets with an iron fist, coupled with a reputation that scared the hell out of all the two bit operations that had the audacity to muscle in on the Saints turf.

John Saint was nasty. He had a penchant for violence and enjoyed the pain and suffering of others, a real sadistic sicko. His lust for decapitations earned him the unofficial street name "The patron Saint of blood". That was enough to give any loser with a grudge nightmares. That was of course until he got himself whacked by the Yakuzas when a deal went sour.

Reputation was everything in this game, everyone needed an angle. The King pin had 400lbs of sheer muscle, Dr Doom had the mask and his own island, Octavious had the legs, everyone had something.

As Howard peered out of his tower block high rise window he couldn't help but catch his reflection, ghostly white staring back at him. Although distorted he could not escape the deformed, grotesque faded negative of the image he used to be. The plastic surgeons had done their best, but sometimes the best just isn't good enough. He examined himself, still not full recognising the "thing" he saw in the mirror every morning, after the nightmares had stopped. Donor pig flesh was stretched across his cheeks and forehead, a strange patchwork of what was left of his own face, sown together with large strong sutures. He sighed heavily, his bloodshot eyes threatening to pop another vessel.

"Fucking punisher" he cursed to himself.

This however, would be his angle. The disgusting mulch of borrowed skin, the stitches that continued to follow the contours of his sullen flesh. He was a monster and every little street punk right the way up to The Yakuza's was going to know it. They would fear him like they feared his father. He would be the man who survived when The Punisher came a knocking.

Howard rolled a half melted Ice cube around in his tumbler of Johnnie Walker blue label, his displaced retina following it around the bottom of the glass. A knock, uncertain, almost timid, presented it's self from outside Howard's door.

"Come in"

He grunted. This better be good news he thought to himself as Johnny and Bobby knuckle dragged into his office. The Russian was a hell of an expensive bit of muscle to acquire.

They looked weary, almost child like as if they had just been summoned to the principles office for being naughty boys. Howard took their appearance in for a moment, apart from the now fading cuts and bruises they had picked up from their run in, or run away, from the Punisher at the docks, they appeared relatively unscathed. The pair looked sheepishly awkward as they tried not to look at the fragments of Howard's face. It made Bobby feel sick.

"Well? Where's The Russian, bring him up so he can collect his fee!"

Howard urged them on, they exchanged a nervous glance, the tension rising in the room.

"Boss," Johnny began tentatively. "The Russian...he uggghh" Johnny stuttered, he could feel the heat of embarrassment rise up his face, sweat collected around his collar as Howard's gaze intensified.

"He uggghh, got...Punished"

A hot blazing fire erupted from Howard's stomach, rising like molten lava from a volcano. He spewed forth a rage fuelled barrage of expletives as he flipped his desk over, stamping on his chair, smashing his whiskey glass at Johnny and Bobby's feet, they jumped back, terrified at this display of animosity.

"Mother fucking Punisher! Jesus Christ! What the fuck do I pay you bastards for! You come in here like a couple of fucking queers, telling me the Russians dead and that Frank Fucking Castle is still alive!"

"But Boss! Ironman and Captain America where there! They saved The Punishers skin!"

"Ironman?! Ironman!" Howard screamed in disbelief.

"I'm here going crazy over the god damn Punisher and you want to talk about ironman?"

Howard pulled a shiny yet bulky Israeli made desert eagle from a holster in the small of his back, he caught his reflection in the barrel which incited his rage even further and without a moments hesitation squeezed the trigger. A deafening roar took Bobby's head clean off his shoulders, fragments of skull, brain and blood erupted over Johnny making him cower and beg for his life.

"Please Mr Saint! Please!"

Johnny pleaded into sobs as he tried to choke back tears.

"Howard Saint is dead, I am the Jigsaw"

And with an additional deafening blast Johnny's head mixed with Bobby's in a puddle of gore upon Jigsaws hardwood floor.

Jigsaw picked up his chair and sat down calmly. He sighed another deep exhale and steepled his fingers in contemplation, touching the tips to his gnarled lips.

After a few minutes of calming silence passed Jigsaw placed his phone to the hole where his right ear used to be.

"Yeah, set up a meeting with Bushwacker. And while you're at it Jenny, I'm gonna need a maid with a strong stomach."


End file.
